Jerome found that sassafras, and snakeroot, and various other aromatic roots and herbs of the wilds about his house had their money value.

There was an apothecary in the neighboring village of Dale who would purchase them of him; at the cheapest of rates, it is true--a penny or so for a whole peck measure, or a sheaf, of the largess of summer--but every penny counted.

Poor Jerome did not care so much about his woodland sorties after they were made a matter of pence and shillings, sorely as he needed, and much as he wished for, the pence and shillings.

The sense was upon him, a shamed and helpless one, of selling his birthright.

Jerome had in the natural beauty of the earth a budding delight, which was a mystery and a holiness in itself.